


Sounds Like a You Problem

by sailaway



Series: Sounds Like a You Problem [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hate to Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Military Academy, Pining, Roommates, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5940640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailaway/pseuds/sailaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wall separating the two halves of the turn-of-the-century duplex had not been insulated well during the renovation. This becomes abundantly clear to Hux immediately upon his new neighbor's move-in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sounds Like a You Problem

The wall separating the two halves of the turn-of-the-century duplex had not been insulated well during the renovation. This becomes abundantly clear to Hux upon his new neighbor's move-in.

The music is weird, shifting randomly between discordant and haunting, stopping and starting and repeating riffs. And it's loud. Obscenely loud. Hux seethes as the shriek and squeal of an electric guitar cuts through the house. He'd be damned if he was going to use earplugs in his own home.

He exhanges his pajamas for proper clothes and crosses the small front lawn to ring at the other door. There's no answer, whether because the newly installed occupant can't hear the bell or because it's being ignored, he doesn't know, so he knocks sharply. When this has no effect he strides fuming back to his unit and writes a short but stern letter, tucking it neatly in an envelope and addressing it as “Neighbor” in quick, tidy letters. Before he can return and tape it to the door the music stops.

About time. Not like it's 1 a.m. on a weekday or anything.

 

* * *

 

Hux has only caught a glimpse of his neighbor twice, a figure in black loping away from the house and down the street. Both times he'd worn an unseasonably thick scarf piled around his neck that had obscured his features. When he's home he alternates between periods of bone-rattling music and stretches of absolute silence, with no discernible pattern, and Hux resolves to try to catch him when he's quiet.

The opportunity arises one morning just before he leaves for classes. He can hear footsteps so he knows his neighbor's awake, unusual at this hour. Almost immediately after Hux rings the door is thrown open by a tall, sloe-eyed young man in an oversized sweatshirt with the hood up. He looks surprised to see someone on his doorstep.

“I'm Brendol Hux. I live next door.”

The man processes wordlessly, as if it's only just now occurred to him there might be someone living in the other half of the duplex. He doesn't offer his own name so Hux waits, raising an eyebrow.

“Kylo,” he relents eventually.

“Kyle O?”

He scowls from under the hood. “ _Kylo._ ”

“Well, Kylo, your music is very loud. I'd appreciate it if you kept it at a more sensible volume.”

“I'm not playing any music,” he responds obtusely.

“Obviously not now, but last night? I could feel it in my floorboards.”

“Snoke says I can do whatever I want.” He doesn't even sound smug, just impassive, matter-of-fact.

“And who exactly is Snoke...?”

Kylo just looks at him, like Hux is a special kind of stupid. “The owner. Do you not know who the owner is?”

“I pay the rental management agency. But it doesn't matter. You can't make whatever you racket you like, whenever you like. There are city ordinances.”

“Snoke says I can. He wants me to practice.”

“Practice what, summoning the damned with that noise you call music? And what does the owner have to do with any of it?”

“I'm in a band. The Knights of Ren. Snoke's my manager, he lets me stay here.”

Hux's already limited patience is dwindling. He values civility; noncompliant people, not so much. “I don't care. I'm up at five most weekdays.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” The man's lazy insolence is stunning.

“We'll both have a problem if you don't dial it down,” Hux states severely. “I'm not asking for the moon here. Just don't – ”

He trails off as he catches a glimpse of the living room behind his obstinate neighbor. It's not the scattered music gear, partially unpacked boxes, or mismatched furniture that draws his eye but the old ceremonial military saber in a wooden display case on the wall, the only form of decor.

“Is that yours?” Hux nods towards it.

“My grandfather's.” Even though Kylo's face is closed off, clearly uninterested in a lengthy discussion, Hux detects a hint of pride in his voice.

“World War II, army officer, standard issue,” Hux notes. He can tell Kylo's disconcerted by how he knows this detail so he adds, “I'm a student at the academy.”

Kylo's eyes flare with interest but he doesn't act on it. He gives Hux a reluctant once over before shutting the door in his face.

 

* * *

 

Kylo is slightly more considerate about his music. Slightly. Sometimes he forgets, or doesn't care, or seems to just want to be abrasive, at which point Hux resorts to banging on the wall in an undignified manner. Juvenile, but Kylo responds well to this sort of direct aggression.

But the house party is unforgivable.

Hux returns late that evening, still in uniform after hours of drill practice, and gapes in indignation at the teeming mob in front of the house. Music streams out from the right side, too loud even from the street, and as Hux storms up to his door his crisp appearance causes the unwashed masses to part before him like the Red Sea.

Kylo is sitting on Hux's living room floor with his legs crossed, eyes closed. Beneath a mess of dark hair his long face is peaceful, a feeling Hux does not share as he stares, appalled, at the intruder taking up an alarming amount of space that doesn't belong to him. He drops his bag on the floor with a thud and Kylo startles, eyes snapping open.

“Mind telling me what you're doing here?” Hux barks. “You're trespassing. How did you get in?”

Kylo's expression is more sullen than guilty. “I was meditating.”

This catches Hux off guard; both the audacity, and that nothing about the man seems like the meditating type. “Meditate at your own place!"

Kylo gives him that look again, like he's an imbecile. “How am I supposed to do that with all those people?”

“That sounds like a you problem.” Hux reopens the door and steps back, gesturing as if to usher Kylo through. “Get out.”

Kylo unfolds his long limbs and clambers to his feet with surprising grace, stalking towards the door like an offended cat. He pauses at the threshold. “I don't know any of them, you know,” he mutters disinterestedly over his shoulder.

Now it's Hux's turn to pin him with a withering glare. “Then tell them to leave.”

Judging from Kylo's face, he hadn't considered that possibility. “Snoke arranged it,” he continues morosely. “It's supposed to be a promotional party. The Knights are going to play later.”

“Snoke's not here, is he? He doesn't have to endure this din, with all sorts of people milling about on the lawn. Christ, someone's brought a potbelly pig.”

Hux descends back into the raucous horde, Kylo in his wake, pushing past the knot of disheveled people concentrated on Kylo's front steps. He scans the packed living room and locates the sound system, fumbles with the knobs – the music cuts out, and a murmur of disappointment ripples through the crowd. There's a cramped makeshift stage set up and, there, the holy grail, a microphone. Hux snatches it out of its stand.

“Everybody vacate the premises,” he says authoritatively into the mic. His voice is louder than it needs to be and when amplified it echoes, distorted, through the house. People wince and cover their ears at the feedback, peering around in befuddlement as if he'd spoken another language.

Hux sighs. “Clear out or I'm calling the police. I'm sure there's a drug deal going down here somewhere.”

The lawn is a disaster. Someone left the pig behind. Hux isn't dealing with any of it.

 

* * *

 

Hux is ripped from sleep by the sound of shouting – animalistic, wild – and the shatter of glass. He leaps from his bed, scrambling for his phone to dial 911, but he can't find it in the dark and adrenaline takes over as he races over the lawn and barges in through the other unit's unlocked door.

After a quick scan he concludes that his neighbor is not, in fact, being robbed and/or murdered, although you wouldn't guess it from the state of the place. Records are scattered like playing cards, the lamp upended with the bulb smashed, and the shabby couch is crisscrossed with slashes, bleeding white stuffing.

In the center of the destruction is Kylo, dark eyes burning under the tangle of hair and chest heaving with exertion. In his hand is that old saber, tassel swinging, his forearm corded from the death grip he's got on it.

“Is that how you treat an antique?” is all Hux can manage.

Kylo's face is feral and Hux, Defense & Strategic Studies major, makes the command decision to retreat.

 

* * *

 

It's a Sunday when Hux realizes Kylo might genuinely have some talent beyond his avant-garde flailings. An acoustic guitar, he thinks – maybe Kylo broke that screeching electric monstrosity during one of his fits – and the melody that drifts through the wall is mellow and lovely and lonely.

When it eventually stops, Hux goes out for a cigarette. Winter is creeping in and he can see his breath, mingling with the smoke, in the thin morning light. The grass glitters with frost.

“Wouldn't have taken you for a smoker, gingerbread,” comes a familiar deep voice. Kylo's sitting on his steps too, not doing much of anything, sprawled back on his elbows as if the concrete isn't like ice. Hux regards him calmly before blowing a stream of smoke in his general direction.

“You won't mind if I borrow a cup of laundry detergent,” Kylo suggests.

“Depends. Does 'borrow' mean you're planning on giving it back?”

Kylo just narrows his eyes.

After Hux finishes the cigarette he goes to the shared cellar to transfer his wet things to the dryer. Kylo comes pounding down the rickety wooden stairs with an armful of clothes, and as he dumps them into the open washer he inspects his shirt, finds it wanting, and tugs it off, tossing it in with the rest.

Several sensations ripple through Hux in quick succession. Discombobulated, he centers his attention on setting the dryer cycle – it's old and finicky – but from the corner of his eye he's conscious of Kylo's broad frame, the wide expanse of taut skin, the low slung sweatpants. Typically Hux likes to stay aware of his own emotions and brain processes, but this time he elects not to, and the interfering thoughts are tuned out like radio static.

The dryer starts with a hum and he flees upstairs with his composure intact.

 

* * *

 

Kylo's ringing his bell. Hux can see his distinctive silhouette through the frosted oval window in the door.

“What do you want?”

Kylo looks insulted. “Why do you assume I must want something?”

Hux lifts a brow. Kylo shuffles his feet. “Can I have a lighter?”

“What for?”

Kylo chooses to ignore the question. “Going somewhere?” he demands instead, examining Hux's suit and half-done tie.

“A party. It's New Year's Eve.” It clicks suddenly what Kylo wants the lighter for. “You know fireworks are illegal in the street.”

The curve of Kylo's mouth is smug and malicious. Hux fishes in his kitchen drawer for a crappy plastic Bic, not confident he'll get it back.

The girl he brings home on a whim is cute, daughter of a congressman or something, petite and blonde and, sure, a little too chirpy. But the cocktails had been strong, and he deserves an indulgence before classes start again.

As he walks her to the taxi the next morning, the twitch of Kylo's curtains reveals a spy. Hux points meaningfully to the colorful bits of paper and cardboard tubes littering the street. In return he's flipped off, more threateningly than Hux thinks is necessary, even for Kylo.

 

* * *

 

Kylo's having another of his tantrums. They'd spoken earlier and he'd been in good spirits - then he went out, and when he came back it had been with a foundation-shaking slam of his front door and it had all been downhill from there. Hux would've just let it blow over if it wasn't coming up on midnight and he didn't have a grueling training exercise the next day. He pounds on the wall but Kylo reacts by roaring and pounding right back.

“Knock it off, Kylo!” he yells, not proud of sinking to his level, but he's already worn to the bone and not equipped to deal rationally with this lunacy.

“Mind your own business,” Kylo screams, guttural and as enraged as a bull.

“Come over here and make me!”

It's just a taunt, hyperbole; but he can hear Kylo stomping through his living room and suddenly he realizes he's actually going to bust in here, _that brat, oh no you don't,_ and without thinking Hux shoves his bare feet in his boots, too angry to bother lacing them up and throws his coat on, undershirt and boxers be damned.

They meet in the worn path in the snow between their two sides.

“What is your damage –”

“You don't own this fucking house –”

“You're such a child –”

“You don't know shit – ”

“– runaway mental patient – ”

“– stick out of your ass –”

“– anger management –”

They scream insults and profanities until they're hoarse, breath pluming between them, and when Kylo seizes the front of Hux's coat Hux instinctively and preemptively clips him with a swift uppercut, dead under the jaw. Kylo reels back, eyes widening as he touches his lips, fingertips coming away red. They stare at each other, Kylo working his tongue in his cheek, Hux bracing for him to lunge.

It dawns on Hux how absurd this is; he's tired, and his fingers are going numb, and his throat hurts and it's all beneath him. "This is ridiculous and I'm finished with it,” he hisses, and turns on his heel.

“We're not done yet,” comes a growl from behind him and Hux finds himself dragged backward; they scuffle, swearing and slipping on the packed down snow and landing awkward blows on each other's backs and sides. Hux manages to grab a handful of hair and okay, maybe it's dirty fighting, but he yanks hard and Kylo howls and releases him.

“This is over,” Hux grits out, walking backward to avoid an attack from behind. Kylo isn't deterred and he charges, going for Hux's lapels again. Hux is agile and well-trained, but Kylo is broad and brutal and hauls Hux easily against him.

The kiss shocks Hux more than a fist would have. He tastes blood and desperation. Metallic. The hard, unloving slant of Kylo's mouth paralyzes Hux for a heartbeat, eyes open, before he shoves back furiously.

They break away simultaneously, as if thrown apart. Hux takes several slow, wary steps back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Kylo looks unsettled, disturbed, running his tongue along the seam of his lips.

Hux inhales unsteadily, the frigid air painful in his lungs. “Let's not talk about this again.”

Kylo wheels away, casting glowering glances over his shoulder as he skulks back to his unit. The hems of his jeans are dragging and wet and Hux just now realizes Kylo was barefoot the whole time.

The next day Hux aces the exercise, like he knew he would.

 

* * *

 

“I think Snoke's going to replace me,” Kylo remarks, gazing dourly into his glass. He'd lost his key, and Hux had begrudgingly let him in from the rain while he waited for the locksmith. Now he just sat there on the low loveseat, all angles and knees almost to his chest, rudely leaving a damp spot on the white upholstery. “He's got a girl from Arizona. Might've been New Mexico. Says he needs someone who can 'carry the band.' Someone who really wants to make it. Says I need to try harder.”

“I can vouch for you practicing all goddamn day and night,” Hux says snippily. He shouldn't care but Kylo looks gutted, wet hair lending him the air of a bedraggled stray.

The set of Kylo's shoulders is surly as he clicks his thumb ring repetitively against the glass. Before Hux can inform him how irritating it is Kylo analyzes his drink again, sets it untouched on the coffee table – Hux coughs delicately, tapping the stack of coasters. Kylo eyes them like they're foreign objects before acquiescing and taking one. The late afternoon sun makes the untouched bourbon glow. Hux wouldn't have offered it, but Kylo had rather presumptuously flat out asked.

“If you're going to drink, hurry up with it. I have a night simulation and I have to get ready to leave. No, no,” he warns as he sees the gleam in Kylo's eye. “No parties.”

“It's my half, gingerbread. I can throw a party in it if I want to.”

“You didn't seem to enjoy the last one. And I won't be here to bail you out this time.”

When he gets back the next morning, one of Kylo's windows is boarded up and there's a single red streamer dangling from the gutter.

 

* * *

 

Hux is driving home one night when he gets a call from a number he doesn't recognize. The voice, he does.

“How'd you get my number?”

Kylo's breathing is labored. “I need you to pick me up.”

“Why?”

“I need you to pick me up.”

The venue Kylo's at isn't far so Hux sighs deeply and alters his route.

Kylo's sitting on the loading dock back by the stage door, arms on his knees. He raises his head when the car's headlights illuminate him and Hux inhales sharply at the sight of the bloody wound bisecting Kylo's battered face. He rolls down the window just a crack as Kylo stumbles to his feet, one hand clamped to his cheek and the other to his side.

“If you think I'm going to let you bleed all over my car –

“Let me in,” Kylo says dully, and something in his voice makes Hux relent.

Kylo is a wordless, rasping black shape in the passenger seat. Hux switches his attention between him and the road, in case he's about to pass out or something.

“You should go to the ER.”

“I don't have insurance.”

“Look, I'll spot you the money –”

“No doctor.”

 

* * *

 

Kylo looks large and out of place at Hux's kitchen table, like a sad, over-sized crow perched on the stool. The laceration is only bleeding sluggishly now, long but shallow, as Hux cleans and dresses it from his medic kit. He's never used it before.

“If this doesn't heal properly, don't blame me.”

“I won't.” Kylo peeps up at him with one amber eye, the other swollen shut. There's blood in his thick lashes.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“We were headlining tonight. I saw Ray backstage and... _Ray_ attacked _me._ ” Each word is more vehement than the last and Hux has the feeling Kylo's rewriting the story in his own head. “Snoke won't be happy. Ray's probably up there right now, in my spot. Fuckin' Ray.”

“So you got in a brawl with your rival and he knifed your face.”

“She. Rey. The girl from New Mexico.”

Hux bites back the more caustic comments. “You never cease to entertain, Kylo.”

Kylo ignores that, and tries to check out the kitchen. Hux grabs his chin. “Stop moving,” he warns, fingers sliding up his jaw to steady his head.

“Your half's nicer than mine.”

“They're identical," Hux replies acidly. "You're just thrown off by the lack of disorganization and destruction.”

Kylo ponders, then actually chuckles, more of a rumble in his throat than a laugh. “Sounds like an album title. Maybe I'll use it.”

He looks almost boyish, bouncing his foot impatiently as Hux finishes the neat row of butterfly bandages. He wonders if it'll scar. Probably. Kylo strikes him as the type who will think it's cool. There's blood on Kylo's bottom lip and without thinking Hux swipes it away with his thumb. The pad of it catches; lingers. Kylo stops fidgeting.

“Why do you put up with Snoke?” Hux says smoothly, turning away to pack up the medic kit. “Can't you get a different manager?”

“He's been in the industry longer than I've been alive. He knows what he's doing.”

“Sounds more like he's pitting you against other talent. Even your band doesn't sound very loyal. Do you need them? You could just go solo.”

Kylo stiffens at the word, as if Hux has suggested something scandalous. As he slides off the stool he prods the gash and Hux smacks his hand away.

“You're welcome,” Hux calls resentfully after him as he slinks out the front door. Then to himself, as he tosses the kit back in his hall closet, “Ungrateful prick.”

The next morning there's a small rectangular something on Hux's steps, wrapped in a white dishcloth. He nudges it with his foot suspiciously before carrying it inside. It's a bread pan – _Kylo can bake?_ – with a fragrant reddish-brown loaf inside. Hux sniffs. Cuts a slice. It's gingerbread.

 

* * *

 

“Where are you going?” Kylo calls from his steps as Hux loads his suitcase in his car.

“Nowhere exciting,” he replies, cigarette between his teeth. “My parents'. Flight's first thing in the morning.”

“Parents?” Kylo huffs, sounding for all the world like a teenager.

“Yes, parents. I assume even you have them.”

Kylo's face twists, sorrowful and sour, and Hux averts his gaze, slamming the trunk shut. As he goes back up the concrete walkway into his half Kylo stretches out his long legs, leaning back on the top step.

“Where do your parents live?” Kylo asks. Hux stops, considering whether or not to go over to him; he takes a last drag before stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray he keeps on his steps. He exhales, and crosses the lawn – there's a patchy track between their two doors where the grass is brown – and stands in front of Kylo, hands in his back pockets.

“North Carolina.”

Kylo squints at him in the dark. His porch light is broken. “You don't have an accent.”

“We moved a lot. I didn't grow up there.”

“Who goes home for spring break, anyway?” Kylo's still sitting but he's higher up on the steps, so they're about eye level. “Thought it was all about Florida, Cancun. Fun in the sun.”

“I burn,” Hux retorts primly. Kylo actually smiles; it changes his face, softens it. “Yeah, you would, gingerbread.”

“I've told you not to call me that.”

“Brendol,” Kylo attempts carefully, like it's an alien word, gauging Hux's reaction.

“Or that. Brendol's my father.”

“Fathers,” Kylo huffs again.

“Fathers,” Hux agrees, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hasn't even boarded the plane and already the headache's building.

“Why don't you just not go?” Kylo pipes up. He's serious, head cocked like a puppy. “Doesn't seem like you want to.”

“They're my parents. That's what you do, you visit your parents when they ask. Especially since my father pays for my schooling and gives me a stipend.”

“You spoiled little prince!” It's an honest-to-god giggle and Hux stares, suspicious of the mirthful accusation, out-of-character for his saturnine neighbor. “You know, I wondered why you were allowed to live off campus instead of in the barracks. Your family's rich. Daddy an alumnus? Big donor?”

Hux isn't sure why he notices how Kylo's eyes light up when he's grinning like that, crinkling warmly at the corners, but he notices. “Are you... drunk?”

Kylo wiggles his hand in midair. “So-so. Or a lot.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “No wonder you're so pleasant.”

Kylo hops up and disappears inside, returning with a crate and a pep in his step.

“Jesus,” Hux mutters, rubbing his forehead again.

“Not quite." Kylo extends the box to him like a gift. It's full of miscellaneous bottles, apparently chosen at random from the liquor store shelf. The bottom one. Hux recoils disdainfully.

“My flight's at six a.m. And I don't drink that cheap shit anyway.”

“ _I don't drink that cheap shit,_ ” Kylo parrots back in a falsetto, unimpressed. “You're a real paragon of class and taste, we know.” He's still holding the box out. Another time it might be easy to refuse, yet seeing as the alternative was spending the rest of the evening alone with his thoughts and fighting off a migraine...

“Fine,” Hux relents. “But I'm bringing my own liquor.”

 

* * *

 

Kylo's couch has a slipcover now, masking the damage from the saber. Kylo apparently likes the thermostat cranked so Hux shed his sweater an hour ago, lounging comfortably with his sleeves rolled up and top button undone. In the papasan chair across from him Kylo idly plays his acoustic guitar; no song in particular, just fingerpicking something rambling and bluesy.

“Four years of school,” Hux observes absently, “and this is the most college thing I have ever done.”

Kylo slows, the music trailing off. “Four years? You're a senior?”

“Yes. I graduate end of May.”

Kylo does the mental math. “That's only two and a half months from now.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I never thought about that.” Kylo's fingers are only ghosting over the strings now, each note hazy and lingering. “I assumed you were younger. What are you going to do after? You'll be an officer. You'll get stationed somewhere.”

“Yes, I will.” There's a thread of agitation in Kylo's voice but Hux is too relaxed to really follow it. Kylo's not playing anymore, just clicking his ring restlessly against the neck of the guitar. It hardly bothers Hux now.

“You ever think about the time I kissed you?” Maybe it's the alcohol but Kylo's voice seems hoarser, his eyes intense and liquid dark. The one lamp in the living room must have a nonexistent wattage, judging by the light (or lack thereof) it puts out, casting Kylo's face into shadow. The healing scar, pale pink in daylight, is almost invisible now. He's laser-focused on Hux.

“You mean the time you assaulted me with your mouth,” Hux corrects. Kylo's guard drops, not completely but a little, and he slouches in surrender, compressing his lips to conceal a smile as he looks down at the frets.

“I could drive you to the airport,” he begins, “So you don't have to pay for parking. Bring your car back.”

Hux snorts inelegantly as downs the last of his drink. “Yeah, right. I'd be lucky to get it back in pieces. Do you even have a driver's license?”

“No. But I have a pilot's license.”

Hux pauses. “Do you really?”

Kylo nods, pleased that he's piqued Hux's interest. “Driving's just flying low,” he deadpans.

Hux can't hold back the huff of laughter. “You keep surprising me, Kylo.”

Kylo's eyes warm, but remain watchful. “How long will you be gone?” he asks, very casually.

“The full week. Going to miss me?” Hux chuckles at his own joke, expecting a smart aleck comeback but Kylo is fixated on his mouth, as if fascinated by the sound.

“I'll miss you when you go for good.” His voice is rough, earnest, and Hux isn't quite sure he heard right. Kylo's on the edge of his chair, all but vibrating with restrained energy. He hadn't had anything to drink for a while but maybe he's hit his limit.

“You must be drunk,” Hux concludes. He doesn't know what else to say. “So am I. Can't believe you talked me into this.”

“You should smile more, gingerbread.” Kylo's face is wistful. “Looks good on you.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Coppertop. Agent Orange.”

“Now you're just being rude.”

“General Ginger.”

Hux smirks self-deprecatingly. “Maybe one day.”

“That's what you want?” Kylo looks off, visualizing. Plucks a few ominous notes on the low E string. “General Hux.” It's just clowning around but hearing his name like that sends a little thrill down Hux's spine.

“Sounds intimidating,” Kylo continues, crossing his arms on the top of the guitar. “I'd be scared of you.” His tone is light, but he's staring Hux down in a way that can only be described as a smolder.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Kylo's taken aback by Hux's bluntness, as if he hadn't expected to be called out. “Like what?”

“I don't know, like...” Hux mimics him, sitting forward and giving him an exaggerated ogle. “Like you want me to come over there and eat you.”

“Who says I don't?”

Hux blinks once or twice – Kylo doesn't move a muscle – before yawning and rubbing his eyes. His buzz is fading and Kylo's ruining the atmosphere with his usual exasperating strangeness.

“Are you annoying on purpose?”

“You think I'm annoying, Hux?”

It registers that Kylo's not just pestering him for the sake of it, that he looks truly disgruntled. Hux is thrown by Kylo's stormy expression; he's grown used to Kylo's quicksand moods, but it seems a disproportionate response.

“You're being weird right now, yes.” He sets his empty glass on the side table – no coasters, of course Kylo doesn't own coasters – and rubs his eyes again. “It's late. I have to get back.”

As he rises Kylo copies him, knocking his guitar to the floor, strings thrumming jarringly. “You're just going to insult me like that and leave?”

“What? I can insult you if you'd like, Kylo, but that wasn't one. Maybe you've had too much to drink.”

“Are you saying I'm a lightweight?”

“What's your issue? Why are you picking a fight?” There's something off about the glint in Kylo's eyes, the sudden spray-and-pray aggression. Hux turns, trying to recall where he put his sweater. “Of course I can't just hang out with my neighbor like normal people do,” he mutters as he checks behind the couch, “because my neighbor is not a normal person.”

“You're not so normal yourself,” Kylo challenges. “Typical upper crust priss who thinks he's above it all.”

Hux can't find the damn sweater. He gives it up for gone.

“By all means, don't hold back, Kylo. But do it on your furnishings, not me. I can see the tantrum brewing so I'm out.”

Kylo's blocking his path to the exit. “Move,” Hux commands. Despite having spent the past two hours resting easy Kylo's breathing hard, eyes feverish. Hux's adrenaline spikes, body tensing. His hands want to ball into fists but he makes himself lower them to his sides. He sighs, arranging his features into a conciliatory expression.

“Can we not do this?”

Kylo's lip curls. “You're just worried I'll mop the floor with you.”

They end up doing this. On the floor, scrabbling and tussling like children because even though they're not really drunk anymore it's still enough to make them sloppy and slow. Hux winds up on top, straddling Kylo's waist as they grapple and smack at each other. Kylo gets a punch in and it cracks across Hux's cheekbone, snapping his head back.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he chokes as his vision blurs. He reuses his old tactic and grabs a fistful of Kylo's hair, pinning him to the floor with it. It stills Kylo like a tranquilizer; he's panting unevenly, pupils dilated, the veins standing out in his neck. He must have caught a stray elbow because his full lower lip is split.

Hux kisses him before he consciously recognizes the urge to do so; it's punishing, subduing. Kylo, all fire and violence, is pliant beneath him, arms slack by his face. Hux sinks both hands into Kylo's hair now, not very gently, shaking just a little like a disobedient dog he's got by the scruff of its neck. Kylo's hips flex up and Hux presses his own more firmly down, a reprimand, keeping him in check. Kylo's mouth is so soft, fingers rising now to curl around Hux's biceps –

Hux's phone rings. A shrill alarm, rousing him from a strange dream. He straightens, blinking down at Kylo. Kylo blinks back, heavy-lidded, silently daring him to ignore it.

Hux rolls off, fishing in his pocket for the phone. It's a wrong number. He leaves anyway.

 

* * *

 

The first time could be dismissed as an accident. The second? Not a chance.

Hux waits in the terminal, drumming distractedly on his thigh. There's a pit in his stomach and he's not sure if it's a result of the too-hastily eaten breakfast, the mild hangover, or last night. Maybe all three.

He can still taste him. Feel that mop of hair in his hands, the muscular torso between Hux's thighs. The friction of their jeans. It had only occurred to him on the drive to the airport how artlessly yet blatantly Kylo had been coming on to him all evening. He flushes now at his uncharacteristic obliviousness, and there's an unexpected pang of... guilt? Regret?

He has to think about this some more. As it so happens, he's got the next several hours free.

He shoots off the text before he can over-analyze it. _You're in my phone now as Fly-low Kylo._

He gets Kylo's reply when he lands. _Roger that, General Ginger._

Hux showers after he unpacks – travel always leaves him feeling grimy – and in the tiled walk-in he takes himself in hand, struggling and failing to neutralize his mind, coming immediately and with a body-racking shudder when he gives in to visions of a plush mouth and a halo of dark hair.

 

* * *

 

A man shows up at Hux's door. He's gray-haired, with a weary face, and he looks discouraged to see Hux but collects himself and asks for Ben Solo. Hux shakes his head no, sorry, no one here by that name.

“Are you sure?” He looks at a tattered scrap of paper in his hand. “Isn't this the address?”

The man's ball cap is worn at the brim, bearing the faded logo of a flying club above an embroidered silver airplane. Hux takes in the man's long nose, the cautious but hopeful eyes that crease at the corners.

A sneaking suspicion.

“I might have seen him around,” he says carefully. “My neighbor has parties sometimes. What does he look like?”

“Tall; probably taller, since I last saw him. Dark hair. Longish. Lots of freckles. I've got an old picture in the car – ”

Hux just nods to the left. “Try next door.”

He doesn't have to wait long for the raised voices. He peeks out the window, not caring if he's being nosy, then curses and bolts outside when he sees the man backing rapidly down the walkway followed by a shirtless Kylo, bounding down the steps and brandishing that old saber. Hux shouldn't get involved but he can hardly let Kylo kill a guy on the front lawn.

Kylo's pacing like a caged predator, flipping the saber around, knuckles white on the handle. Hux wants to tell him he's being demented but doubts that in Kylo's current condition he'll find the observation relevant. He's not selfless enough to step in between the pair but from a safe distance he sidles up into Kylo's line of vision.

“Do you want someone to call the police?” Hux reasons, trying to appeal to Kylo's sense of self-preservation. “It's Monday morning, people are leaving for work. Someone's going to drive past and see a big lunatic waving a sword.”

Kylo doesn't seem to have heard, staring in a distinctly uncivilized way at the old man, whose weathered face registers only mild trepidation, more sad than scared. This alone confirms his identity to Hux. The man takes a beseeching step forward. “Your neighbor's got a solid point, Ben – ”

“Ben's gone,” Kylo spits, and Hux wants to scoff at the theatrics but Kylo does have a deadly weapon, so he'll stow the commentary. A minivan slows as it passes the house, the driver gawking, and when Kylo notices he reluctantly lowers the saber. Hux mouths an apology at the old man as he herds the barely restrained Kylo inside.

 

* * *

 

Kylo has a tattoo. A black, palm-sized geometric design on his ribcage, a hexagon with an asterik or something inside. Hux can't get a good look since he's occupied trying to keep at least an arm's length away.

“You told him where I was,” Kylo accuses, jabbing his finger in a way Hux really does not care for.

“He asked. He knew you. He's your dad, isn't he?”

“And you told him where I was!”

“I wasn't aware you were estranged!”

Kylo doesn't have an rebuttal and he roars, flinging the saber, and it hits the opposite wall and clatters to the floor. He shoves his hair back viciously with both hands, eyes bright with brimming tears. He's about to crumble, and Hux's entire being balks at the unbridled, unrefined emotion of it. He has a thousand questions (number one on the list, why Kylo thought it was reasonable to go after his father with a goddamn sword,) but they'll have to wait. He can't stay here, sunk in this melodrama.

“Sort yourself out, Kylo,” he proclaims coolly. As he turns to escape he spies his long lost sweater, draped over an amp by the couch. He hesitates. It was expensive, and one of his favorites. But he'll have to go around his mess of a neighbor to retrieve it.

Kylo may not have a weapon anymore but the tears are far more dangerous.

Hux is not a hugger. Hux shakes hands. A back pat is acceptable on special occasions. Most physical contact is unnecessary; too much, too close. But apparently he's made an exception because suddenly Kylo's hair is tickling his face, arms tight and trembling around him, and neither makes a sound.

There's something raw and organic about the needy press of Kylo's naked chest, his shifting back muscles warm and honest and primal under Hux's opening palms; these are words Hux's head has no affinity for but his body is responding to. He's overcome with the compulsion to press his mouth to Kylo's neck, soft and consoling on the fluttering vein, and he fights it, fights it with every cell.

Hux has a hard time with gentle words. They don't come naturally to his tongue, getting stuck somewhere along the way. But he does his best, rephrasing his admonition to reflect the unforeseen wash of concern for his unruly, unfathomable neighbor. “I hope you get everything sorted out, Kylo. I do.”

Kylo's embrace is heavy, dragging like a riptide as Hux shrugs reluctantly free. Back in his half, he second-guesses having left at all.

 

* * *

 

They're back to square one with the music. That godawful wailing music, dissonant and surely designed to fracture one's sanity. Hux wonders if Kylo is deliberately goading him – that tuneless cacophony can't be accidental – but he doesn't bother complaining about it. The inconvenience of earplugs is better than the discomfort of interaction.

He won't think about it. Can't, there's too much to do; final exams, thick folders of paperwork, prepping for various ceremonies, applying to officer training in Georgia. But at night, during that exhausted drift into sleep, his brain tunes to the frequency of Kylo. Did his father reach out again, what's up with the band, there haven't been any more parties – does Kylo even have any actual friends – no tantrums, either, that's a bonus – the grass is unkempt, he hadn't realized until now that Kylo mows it, the lawn care never even occurred to Hux, he really is a product of his privilege – an unchangeable channel with an endless feed of Kylo, Kylo, Kylo.

Hux has the strangest feeling he's missing some kind of crucial window of time. That after they'd slipped out of each other's lives like the phases of an eclipse, Kylo would be forever a mystery to him, immortalized as just that one oddball neighbor he had for a while in college.

Hux starts packing his things early, so he doesn't have it do it all at the last minute. He's has always favored a more minimalist, clutter-free living space so there's not much, even after living here for four years. A widow had lived next door for the first three of them. A nice, quiet widow, who never bothered him for so much as a cup of sugar.

As he's scanning the contents of the fridge one night the house is plummeted into pitch black. He hesitates a moment before going to the living room and banging on the wall. “Kylo? Is your power out?”

“Yeah,” comes the muffled reply. “Streetlights, too, I think it's the whole grid.”

“Damn. I was about to start dinner.”

“You don't have anything you don't have to cook?”

"I don't have much. I've been using it all up before I move out." Hux mentally tallies the contents of his pantry. “PBJ.”

“You do you, but I'm ordering pizza.” A beat. “I've got a two for one coupon.”

 

* * *

 

“Who eats pizza with a knife and fork?”

Hux doesn't deign to respond to his sass.

Kylo's dug up an old camping lantern, and the flickering flame casts a warm glow over his round, beat-up kitchen table. His hair is to his shoulders now. The curl pattern is more prominent, a lion's mane in jet black.

“I've got to know,” Hux begins, to distract himself, “before I... leave. What ever happened with the band?”

“Snoke said if I wasn't going to live up to my potential, he'd find someone who would.” Kylo's face darkens with the weight of his failure. “Guess he wasn't bluffing. Toward the end he got... creepy."

A cold spark of – protectiveness? Built-like-a-tank Kylo hardly needs protecting – ignites in Hux's belly. “Creepy?”

“Not like that.” Kylo shakes his head in exasperation, correctly reading Hux's train of thought. “Overbearing. Unreasonable. Sticking his nose in my life like it was his to run.”

Hux's hackles settle; his reaction was stupid. Kylo's half-smile is sly. “Although I'm glad you're so concerned about my virtue.”

Hux busies himself with his glass of water.

“He didn't even officially boot me out,” Kylo continues around a mouthful of pizza, deceptively relaxed. His eyes are cast down to hide the hurt. “He stopped contacting me and I could never reach him. The band was the same. Don't think they ever cared about me much. Last time we were together they said I was... 'not chill.'”

“Accurate,” Hux concurs, and Kylo kicks him under the table. Something should be said, to reassure Kylo about the loss of his (subpar, but obviously treasured) mentor, but the forming fragments seem incoherent and trite. Hux puzzles it out for a while as they eat in companionable silence. "I'm sure you'll find a new manager who respects you and values your talent," he finally settles on. Short and sweet.

Kylo raises one brow in disbelief at the veiled praise so Hux decides to adjusts the conversation slightly, setting his cutlery at the six o'clock position on his plate. “How have you been living?”

“Mostly selling equipment. I had a lot of it. Snoke would've evicted me, but I tracked him down at a show and convinced him to let me start paying rent.”

“The rent's not cheap.”

“And I'm almost out of stuff to sell," Kylo rejoinders wryly.

“And... any new developments with your father?”

Kylo takes his time before speaking, toying with his napkin until it's in tatters. “He and my mom came by. They wish I'd come home. Mostly I just think they wanted to see me.”

“Care to share any more backstory to the family drama?”

Abruptly Kylo slams his hand flat on the table. “I don't want to talk about them.”

“You sound like a teenager.” Hux immediately regrets the jab; it's not the right moment.

“Oh, fuck off, Hux.” The chair scrapes and falls back on the floor as Kylo jumps up, movements jerky as he gathers the dishes and tosses them into the sink with a crash. “I know you enjoy being hateful but don't pretend you've got the picture perfect family.

“I do, actually. Picture perfect.”

“Exactly. But it's always a different story behind the scenes, right? Let's read between the lines.” Kylo rights the chair and spins it backwards, sliding in with his forearms crossed over the seat back. “I'll bet your father was a military man, too. To the letter. Not cruel, but distant; high standards, higher expectations. Always wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. You're an only child, aren't you? Thought so,” he wraps up rather smugly, when Hux's lack of response confirms.

“Not bad,” Hux says tightly. “You forgot the dead mother, though.”

Kylo blanches, his self-satisfaction dissolving. Hux lets him sit with the shock and embarrassment before allowing himself the tiniest of smirks. “Only kidding.”

Kylo sighs ruefully, passing a hand over his face. “You always know how to make me feel like shit.”

Now it's Hux's turn to sit with it. “Do I?”

The mood has taken a turn. Kylo rises and retrieves two bottles from the unlit fridge. “Have a beer with me.”

“No.”

“What do you think will happen if you do?”

Hux can feel it, a thick mass of things unsaid and unacknowledged rising in his chest. It swells, overwhelming, choking him. He doesn't permit himself to be overwhelmed. He stands, too quickly. “I should go.”

Kylo launches to his feet again, eyes ablaze. “No, you shouldn't.” He pronounces each syllable like its own separate sentence. He's around the table in one long stride, reaching for Hux, taking his face in guitar-calloused hands and kissing him like he's starving for it. It's stunningly tender, a plea; Hux's steely resolve is melting, fingers snagging in Kylo's worn t-shirt.

“Hit me,” Kylo begs into his mouth, tremulous. “Hit me if you want.”

“What...? Why do you think I want to hit you?”

“I don't know. I don't know why I said that. I just... I need you to touch me so I still feel it when you're gone – ”

Hux kisses him again, swallowing the words and Kylo moans faintly, tremors in his hands where they cradle Hux's jaw. It would be easy, so easy, so take him into the bedroom – Hux wants to, painfully, wants to pull that out-of-control hair and fuck him straight into the mattress and ask him about his tattoo and why he changed his name – but in the deepest parts of him, the places he won't look too closely at, he suspects that if he does it will be irrevocable and he won't ever be able to get Kylo out from under his skin.

“We can't,” Hux breaks off. “I'm leaving soon.”

“I don't care.”

“You don't understand, I can't – ”

“Don't do that.” Kylo sounds broken, and pissed off. His voice is almost inaudible. “Your excuses are shit. Stay.” Hux isn't sure if he means for the night, or for good, but they're kind of blurring into the same thing and the recognition of it rattles him to the core.

Hux stumbles out, leaving wrinkles in the front of Kylo's shirt.

 

* * *

 

Hux smooths his hair before putting on his cap, giving his dress whites a last inspection in the hall mirror. It's all immaculate, of course; hair sleek and neatly parted as usual, uniform faultlessly ironed, brass buttons polished to gleaming.

Kylo's coming up his walkway as Hux hurries down his. Kylo stares, drinking him in. His eyes have gone sort of soft.

“Creamsicle,” he finally dredges up, although it's clear his heart isn't in it. “What's the getup for?”

“I'm meeting my parents. Graduation banquet.”

“Graduation. Tomorrow?”

“It was today.”

Kylo's eyes widen a fraction. “You graduated already.”

Hux hates the tug just to the left of his own sternum. Doesn't trust it. He nods briskly. “Graduation today, banquet tonight. Commissioning ceremony tomorrow.”

“Is that where they...” Kylo mimes pinning rank insignia on his shoulders. Hux nods again. A pair of swallows swoop overhead against the twilight sky, carefree.

Kylo makes a wan smile. “Congratulations,” he mumbles over his shoulder, continuing on into the house with those familiar long strides. Hux watches him until the front door closes.

It's a good thing he's long known the route to campus by muscle memory because his mind is elsewhere as he drives.

 

* * *

 

He gets back late. His parents have returned to their hotel, and as he parks in front of the house he unbuttons his high, starchy collar. He's never found his uniform uncomfortable before.

A sense of dread unfurls in his stomach at the sight of the debris strewn across the lawn like a ship's wreckage on the sea floor. It's been so long since the last tantrum; Kylo must have been storing it up. For something special.

To the muffled soundtrack of things breaking Hux carefully hangs up his uniform. He brushes his teeth, letting the water run wastefully to drown out the commotion. The nights are sultry now and he tosses and turns in bed, too hot even with the fan. Takes off his pajama pants so he's just in his boxer-briefs and undershirt. Even as the noise dies down, sleep eludes him. His skin feels buzzy and wrong. It all feels wrong.

As if in a dream his feet carry him to Kylo's steps, iron pulled to a magnet. Past cardboard boxes and piles of clothing, a guitar case, the empty saber display, a plastic tub of cords and wires. The grass is damp and prickly on his bare feet, the concrete cool. The door's unlocked.

Music is playing from one lone speaker, face down on the floor, the tune muted and tinny against the hardwood. Hux absorbs the chaos as he moves through the space, architecturally a mirror image of his own, and up the stairs to the darkened bedroom. He wonders what it was like before this grand finale. It looks like it's been ransacked.

For several heavy, sickening seconds as Hux takes in the room, he thinks Kylo's gone. Wrecked the place, salvaged what he wanted, and departed into the night. The duplex is not particularly large and aside from the faint music, it's silent. Kylo's never silent.

And Hux is never panicky. Doesn't lower himself to such unmanageable emotions. His fingers dig into the door frame as he tries to master himself. As his eyes adjust to the darkness he makes out a wild-haired silhouette sitting in the open window, feet out on the roof, hunched over like a church gargoyle.

Something inside Hux lurches. He steadies his breathing before speaking. “Yard sale?”

Kylo startles, cracking his head on the window sash. He looks at Hux for a beat before he maneuvers his long limbs back inside and rights himself.

“I'm moving out,” Kylo announces with quiet defiance. His throat sounds scratched and gravelly, as if from overuse. “Won't be able to pay the rent much longer, and...” He gestures forcefully to their shared wall. “Even if I could, I don't want to risk dealing with _another_ uptight academy dick.”

Hux can't bring himself to be offended. “But you could have such fun harassing him.”

“I don't want to harass anyone else.”

Hux enters the room and promptly trips over a fallen bookshelf. Swears. “This – this isn't healthy,” he stammers, pointing at it emphatically. He never stammers. “Throwing a fit when you don't get your way.”

“Stop it,” Kylo snarls. He looks... wounded. Like a gravely injured animal. A predator brought low.

“Sorry.” Hux rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I'm sorry.” He's never liked apologizing. It feels weak. A relinquishing of control. “I'm sorry.”

Kylo only has an inch or two of height advantage but normally he looms. He's kinetic like that, vibrant, all movement and energy and robust physicality. Now he's just standing there, like a regular person, tense but with a kind of melancholy sag to his broad shoulders.

“When are you leaving?” Kylo presses warily.

“My lease is up next week.”

Kylo shuts the window with a slam.

“All my things are packed so I could help you with yours, if you want,” Hux proposes lamely, wincing as soon as the unplanned jumble of words is out.

If looks could kill, Hux would be dead and buried twice over. “Thank you, so much.” Kylo's voice is flat, dripping with contempt. “You're so kind.”

“Kylo.” Hux beckons with two fingers. “Come here. Please.”

A CD snaps underfoot as Kylo strides to the door, looking past him like he just part of the mess. Hux catches his arm. “Kylo – ”

Hux ducks the punch just in time and Kylo's fist smashes into the wall. Under the modern drywall is solid stone and Kylo gulps in a ragged breath, gritting back a cry.

“Why are we always hitting!?” Hux screams, grabbing Kylo's hand to examine the bloody knuckles. “It's barbaric!”

Kylo wrenches himself free. “Because you're a stuck up fucking asshole and I hate you!”

“Yeah, well, the feeling's mutual.”

Hux closes the gap, hooking one arm around Kylo's neck as they connect violently, two bodies on an inevitable collision course. Hux's kiss is fierce, Kylo's arms a vice around him. This is burning; this is finally breathing.

The bed had been stripped of sheets and Kylo's hair is a dark cloud against the mattress, mouth slick and swollen, eyes full of unnameable things. He arches up into Hux, his embrace so tight and desperate it almost hurts, all fire and ferocity and everything that makes him Kylo.

Yet when Hux grips his hair he groans, head falling back; he opens for Hux with a whimper and a sigh, pliant and breathless, putty in his hands.

“You don't know,” Kylo gasps into Hux's neck, voice husky with desire, body bowing into him, “How I wanted you. Just a wall away. How I thought of you, at night, of your hands on me –”

“I know. I know.” Hux kisses him quiet, interlacing their fingers and pushing Kylo's into the mattress. Kylo's powerful arms offer no resistance.

Reckless, volatile, mercurial Kylo yields only for him.

 

* * *

 

“I want you there tomorrow, at my commission.” It's an impulsive request, unlike him in both its spontaneity and how plain it makes his feelings. Vulnerability is not one of his customary emotions.

Draped against Hux's side, Kylo visibly starts. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“I don't do fancy.”

“Not even if there's brunch after? Free food should be right up your alley.”

“That's what you consider sweetening the pot? Making small talk with your parents and assorted strangers over brunch? I'll pass.”

“Your loss,” Hux shrugs, lacing his fingers behind his head. “They've got great eggs benedict.”

They're quiet for a while. Hux wants to turn the fan on – it's beyond him how Kylo can stand keeping his place so warm, especially since his big body burns like a furnace – but getting up would mean disentangling themselves. He supposes a bit of sweat never hurt anyone.

“I don't own a suit,” Kylo admits eventually.

“A decent jacket will be fine. You do have one of those, right?” Kylo doesn't reply. “At least a collared shirt?”

“If I ever did,” Kylo says ambiguously, calloused fingertips aligning with Hux's ribs, “it's probably out on the lawn.”

 

* * *

 

Brendol Hux Sr. pins the bars on his son's shoulders and salutes him for the first time as a commissioned officer. Hux doesn't feel big enough to contain his pride. His parents had always encouraged this but he wanted it himself, too. He'd never doubted the trajectory he'd chosen for his life, and now it was locked and set and it was a matchless sensation.

There was one twinge of disappointment. He'd eventually resigned himself to Kylo not showing, pushing the absence aside to ponder later, but as he lowers the salute he sees an unmistakable figure wandering across the green, looking rather lost.

Hux shakes hands, smiles for pictures. His parents are chatting with old acquaintances and when he catches his mother's eye he holds up a finger to indicate he'll be right back. “I've just seen a friend,” he mouths, and slips away.

Kylo's done something different to his hair and it's swept back in loose, silky waves, looking downright luxurious, which isn't a word Hux would ever have associated with Kylo before now. Turns out he does own a blazer, and his black button-up is only slightly rumpled. Relief floods his face as he spots Hux winding toward him through the crowd.

They face each other without speaking for a moment, people flowing past like river water around a rock.

“I'm sorry I missed it,” Kylo apologizes awkwardly. "I couldn't find my jacket." He surveys the well-dressed guests and graduates that surrounded them. "I should have worn a tie." A camera flashes close by and he squints.

“It doesn't matter.”

Hux guides him away from the throng to the wide gravel walkway that stretches across campus, shaded by a thick canopy of trees. The leaves rustle and shimmer in the breeze, the mixed laughter and happy voices fading into pleasant background noise.

“You have a new uniform.” Kylo pauses. “I guess now I can tell you now I always thought you looked good in your uniform. All the different ones.”

Hux suddenly becomes fascinated by the shiny tips of his shoes.

“Your ears are going red,” Kylo alerts him helpfully. “Hard to hide a blush with that complexion, gingerbread.”

Hux tsks at the nickname, shooting Kylo a look.

“It's a habit now,” Kylo shrugs blithely. “Habits are hard to break.”

Hux searches the sea of people milling on the green. “When I locate my parents again you can come say hello.”

Kylo's clearly unconvinced. “I think we know too much about each other's parents to ever make that a comfortable introduction.”

“I still expect a full explanation of what prompted you to chase your father out of the house with a sword. Don't think I've forgotten.” Hux idly fiddles with Kylo's sleeve; the material is velvety, a burgundy so dark it's almost black. Very Kylo.

“You weren't wrong, Hux,” he says, in that sparse way of his. His gaze is somber. Guileless. “What you said before. You're leaving – it's a big world.”

“I don't do things in half measures.” Hux's tone brooks no argument, fingers traveling down to interlock with Kylo's. Their hands feel good together. He likes the fit. “I didn't fuck you silly last night –” now it's Kylo's turn to go scarlet – “as a goodbye.”

“You brought that girl home on New Year's,” Kylo reminds him resentfully. “A hookup isn't outside the realm of possibility.”

“Don't tell me you were jealous.” Kylo's flush deepens. “You were, weren't you?!”

“I may have been in a compromised emotional state at the time.”

Hux tugs him closer, pressing a brief but purposeful kiss to his temple. He's not sure what specific sentiment he intends to convey with it, but it feels important.

“I have an officer course coming up. It's six weeks long, runs until mid July.”

Kylo's gaze slides away nonchalantly, brows drawn. He is completely transparent in this moment, even as he feigns interest in people out on the green, as if his chest is open and his beating heart out on display.

There's an infinite number of things Hux could say. He constructs a few sample sentences in his head; rearranges; discards. “Will you still be here?”

Kylo's eyes cut back to him. “Haven't decided yet. Might move to the city.”

“With those rent prices? You'll get the real starving artist experience.”

“Is there wifi, where you're going?” Kylo inquires, abruptly and with zero subtlety. “Good phone signal?”

“I'm going to Georgia, not Antarctica.”

“You should go to Antarctica. Suits you. Cold, empty, basically lifeless – ”

“You know, Kylo, I don't even _want_ you contacting me while I'm away. Your texts are terrible. There should be a limit on how many emojis you can use in a single message – ”

Kylo shuts him up with the solid press of his lips. Hux has opinions about public affection, but he'll grant an exception this once. When Kylo withdraws he lingers; for a few suspended moments their foreheads touch.

Hux has never used drugs, but he imagines this is what a high must feel like.

He looks down at Kylo's hand, clasped in his. The knuckles are raw, bruised indigo. He brushes his thumb over the scraped skin. “Does it hurt?”

Kylo's dark eyes never leave Hux's face. “No. It doesn't hurt at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://apprentixe.tumblr.com)


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